Like a three foot high hobbit in a pimps outfit
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: A request. Sherlock gets ill. It should be a simple old flu- but of course, Sherlock Holmes doesn't do simple. Whatever virus he'd picked up had mutated inside him, and now was probably as flashy as a gay pride flag... and John has to deal with it. R R!


_A request from IAMDOCTORWHOLOCKED- with the prompt 'Sherlock gets ill, and John cares for him'. I do do more requests, so just drop me a line if you want one, either through my email thingie or the review._

_Meanwhile- enjoy!_

_Sherlock x_

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes, gasped in pain and then clenched them shut tightly.

He groaned, which was muffled by his pillow.

The first thing Sherlock was aware of was the headache- the throbbing of every beat of his heart was making his vision go a bit funny. And, god, that pain- had someone smashed a hammer into his head while he'd been blissfully sleeping? It sure felt like it.

He knew it had been a bad idea to stay out all night in the soaking rain, then coming back to 221B and into bed dripping wet still… but he was Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock Holmes never got sick.

With a frustrated sigh, he slid one long limp out of bed. Then the other and with a pained grunt, heaved himself up.

Sherlock got to his feet, and almost immediately fell over with a surprisingly hard _**THUNK!** _onto the wooden floor.

The room was spinning, and Sherlock couldn't recall the last time he had felt _this _bad. It was horrible. It was painful, and worst of all, it meant Sherlock couldn't go deducting crime scenes for quite a while- he couldn't risk contaminating evidence.

With a funny jolt, Sherlock realised he hadn't drew breath since he'd landed hard on the floor. When he did, he immediately wished he hadn't- Sherlock's throat was red raw, burning contently with each breath. It was like it had been scrubbed harshly with a brillo pad.

Oh, dear God, Sherlock Holmes was ill.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

John was reading the paper, trying to have a nice and relaxing morning for once. He'd woken up on the right side of the bed, his tea had been made the way he liked it, the jam was divine-

'_Uuugh!'_

John set down his paper on the little table and frowned up at the ceiling. He shrugged, flattened out his newspaper with a tanned hand and-

**_THUNK!_**

He heard the thud downstairs. It shook everything slightly, and curious, John got up to investigate.

He ran up the stairs, and didn't bother knocking on Sherlocks door; the doctor just walked it and almost laughed at what he saw.

Sherlock Holmes, the worlds only consulting detective, was sprawled out on his bedroom floor, head turned to the side, his large floaty dressing gown looking like a mass of feathers- he looked more like a damn bird than ever.

'Sherlock, what are you doing?' John laughed, unable to keep it inside any longer.

'I liked the feel of the floor.' Sherlock replied thickly. John raised his eyebrows. He sounded hoarse, like he'd been screaming all evening. John smiled slightly triumphantly, but in his stomach he felt a bit of guilt for doing so.

So John knelt down, enough so that he was in Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock looked back, half of his face visible, the other half masked onto the floor, with tired red eyes.

Whatever Sherlock had, it was bad.

The medical side of John kicked in- _Doctor _Watson suspected something that had once been simple- but of course, Sherlock Holmes didn't do simple. Whatever virus he'd picked up had mutated inside him, and now was probably as flashy as a gay pride flag.

So, dismissing the Doctor inside of him, John Watson pointed out the obvious from his place at the doorframe.

'You're ill.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes (which is probably as sarcastic you can be while half your face is smushed on the floor).

'_Obviously-'_ Sherlock tried to shift, but he couldn't find the strength. John looked at him pityingly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. '-ugh! I feel ghastly, John!'

John frowned- Sherlock was dehydrated and looked like he had a bad case of the flu.

'John?' he croaked, his tired eyes flicking to the army doctor. 'I'm thirsty.'

_I'm dirsby _was what actually came out of Sherlock's blocked nose. John grimaced, slightly unsure of what to do.

'Can you stand?'

Sherlocks eyes rolled like marbles; only he could be cocky in this situation.

'If I could, would I be down here?'

Sherlock managed a half smile, and John blushed at his sheer stupidity.

After a moment of thought, John carefully wrapping his arms around the detective, he sort of _pulled _him up (seriously, having a 6'2 man who was as limp as a ragdoll was quite hard work). Where ever he tried to move the latter, another bit almost folded out onto John, like a bizarre and very large origami. Two minutes struggling later, and with a huff, John laid him as gently as he could across the bed.

Sherlocks eyes closed shut woozily, one pale hand plucking at his top. John, without hesitation, put a skilled hand to the mans head to take his temperature.

'Jesus, Sherlock- you're really hot!'

Sherlock managed a smile, his eyes still closed.

'Thanks, I would say I'm making up for what you lack, but that wouldn't be true,' he said, slightly breathlessly. John blushed an ever deeper crimson, but stood his ground.

'Right, Sherlock, you're getting a bit delirious. It's the fever; you're temperatures really high, is what I meant to say. You need body fluids- dammit, _drinks_-' Sherlock started to weakly giggle at Johns flustered-ness. '-I'll go and get some.'

John was a bit dazed- yes, he'd seen delirious patience before- but non of them had ever been flirty with him. No woman, not a man- and if he was honest, it was making him very uncomfortable but very flattered at the same time. Feelings… _everywhere!_

* * *

He filled up three glasses- a weak tea, orange juice and water- and placed them on a tray, with some medication.

Carefully going up the stairs, he opened up the door and found Sherlock in the exact same position he was before.

He was so beautiful- it was a kind of alien, unearthly beauty though. He looked like a fallen angel…. His skin was pale, his hair looking even darker than normal, the closed lids a pale shade of lavender. Sherlocks hair was ruffled up, his mouth agape and snoring softly…

_Whoa,_ John suddenly interrupted the dialogue in his head. _When did _those _thoughts start to happen-?_

His train of thought was interrupted by a stutter of breath. John didn't really want to wake him up, but he had no choice. He set down the tray and shook the detective softly on the shoulder.

Nothing.

'Hey, Sherlock, wake up, I've got you drinks.'

Nothing. Just… silence.

John was beginning to worry.

How ironic- silence was something of a rarity in the flat, but now that he had it he wished Sherlock would do something, _anything, _rather than lay limp like he was at the moment.

He roughly shook the detective, and when he didn't stir once again, John tapped the side of his face kind of harder than intended.

'Sherlock, please, wake up. You're scaring me now. Wake up!'

Sherlocks eyelids fluttered, and he coughed a couple of times, his fail body looking like it might break.

'I'm okay,' he choked, his body spazaming again as another cough wracked his frame. 'I'm fine, I'm alive.'

John felt his body relax and the tension trickle out of his limbs.

'Good, because people can die from the flu, you know!' Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his voice to hoarse and raw to speak without wincing. 'Especially ones that mutate inside detectives. Jesus, Sherlock, your fever is so bloody flashy its like…um, it's sorta…. I dunno, but it's bad!'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow again, and John unconsciously pooched out his lips _just _a tad while his cheeks coloured.

'Yeah?' said Sherlock, his voice incredibly high pitched and whispery. 'Like what?'

John flapped his arms about, and before his brain figured out what to say, the words were already out of his mouth.

'Like a three foot high hobbit in a pimps outfit.'

There was a moment of silence… before John had honestly never seen Sherlock laugh so hard in all his years at 221B.


End file.
